


Belonging

by Nerdanelparmandil



Series: Fëanorian Week - March 2019 [3]
Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Brotherly Bonding, Fëanorian Week 2019, Gen, Self Confidence Issues, Silver-Haired Celegorm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-20
Updated: 2019-03-20
Packaged: 2019-11-18 16:41:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,672
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18123833
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nerdanelparmandil/pseuds/Nerdanelparmandil
Summary: A young Tyelkormo struggles with his confindence. Fortunately, his older brother knows exactly how to comfort him.Written for Fëanorian Week 2019, prompt: beauty.





	Belonging

He hurled the brush across the room with a cry. It hit the door of the closet and clattered on the floor. Tears blurred his eyes as he slumped on his bed and began to loosen his misshapen braids for the hundredth time in less than a hour. He tugged forcefully at the strands, feeling his hair wrap around his fingers and tangle into even more knots.

_This is useless, useless!_

Why did his hair have to be so thick and coarse? Brushing it had only made things worse and now it felt like dry straw under his fingers. The colour did not help.

He gave up disentangling his cursed hair, drawing his legs to his cest, and looked at the brush on the floor; he felt slightly guilty for how he had treated the object. It had been a gift from his grandmother, back when he had still been a child no taller than his father’s hip, and his unruly hair constantly resembled a bird’s nest on top of his head, before it grew past his shoulders. Tyelkormo liked her best out of all his relatives, for she strongly resembled his mother, yet had a wilder side that would come through from time to time.

She was devoted to Yavanna, and had taught him much about the trees and plants of Aman. Tyelkormo had soaked all the knowledge he could gather and when he had discovered his calling to be the hunt, he had asked for her advice. She had promised to take him to Oromë himself, when he would grow old enough to learn form the Vala. She was also a capable artisan; the objects she built were sturdy and practical, made from the wood she sang into shape.

The brush was one of such objects, although now Tyelkormo feared to have broken it in his fit of frustration.

A knock on the door had him curl in himself more, muttering a wet “Go away.” He hated how his voice wavered.

“Tyelko, let me in,” said a gentle voice. It was Maitimo and Tyelkormo breathed a sigh of relief – at least it was not father or Makalaurë. They had no patience for braiding his hair and he was in no mood for an argument with them.

“Alright, come in,” he said, voice still muffled against the sleeve of his tunic. He did not look up when his brother entered, not wanting to meet his knowing gaze.

Tyelkormo could not accuse Maitimo of being patronising, but his eyes made people feel as if he could see right through them, as if he already knew what they had wanted to say and had a solution ready. In short, he seemed too wise for his young age. It made Tyelkormo feel exposed.

He heard his brother take a couple of steps inside the room, softly closing the door behind him, and then pick up the wooden brush.

“Mh, do you need some help? We do not have much time, after all, before we need to leave.”

Tyelkormo nodded, eyes stubbornly glued to his knees, as Maitimo sat beside him on the bed. The dipping mattress had him leaning against his brother’s side; his warmth seeped into his bones, calming his shallow breaths.

“Did you have something in mind? A particular idea you wanted to try?”

Tyelko shook his head, “It’s useless, anyway.”

“How about something easy, with simple braids to keep the hair tidy, but most of it down?”

“My hair is too wild to keep it down. It looks…I look like a scarecrow.”

Maitimo put a hand around his shoulders and squeezed. “Nonsense. Let me take the comb, the brush won’t be of help. You will see, you’ll be ready in no time.”

“If you say so…”

His brother only answered “I know so.”

Tyelkormo rolled his eyes, but offered his back to Maitimo, who began combing his hair, starting from the tangled ends. His touch was careful and it felt more like a caress on his scalp, giving him a tingling sensation of safety and comfort. Something loosened inside him, and he knew in that moment that his brother would listen and understand him – maybe even offer him an answer to his problems.

“I wished I had Maka’s hair.”

“Why?”

Tyelko shrugged, “It looks like father’s. You know, smooth and straight.”

“Theirs is not that easier to style than our type of hair, you know? There’s a reason they keep it always down in the days of festivals.”

“How? It doesn’t tangle, of course it’s easier.”

Maitimo chuckled behind him, “Oh, it tangles well enough, rest assured. But it’s also easier to loosen if the weight is too much, or the hair too short. The hairstyle won’t certainly last for a night of dancing or a day of work, not without a lot of pins, ties, and wax. Father has neither patience nor time for those things. And Makalaurë, well…”

“Makalaurë says his dishevelled hair make him – and I quote – mysterious, whatever that means.”

Maitimo laughed at that, “Oh, mysterious, he said?”

“He sounded terribly serious when he told me that. Though I’m not so sure now, it seems a stupid thing to say.”

“He was trying to impress you, not to make fun of you, I’m sure. He takes himself too seriously sometimes. Mysterious! He’s a terrible example; please don’t imitate him, Tyelko. I can only suffer one dramatic brother at the time,” he said merrily.

Tyelko snorted, “You won’t let him live this down, will you?”

“Not at all! Someone must put him back in place.”

“Well, in any case, girls seem to like that,” he said, more bitter than he would have wanted.

Maitimo, of course, sensed the change in his mood, for his laughter disappeared, although Tyelko knew he would still have that indulgent smile of his that made him look like their mother. He felt the rumble of Maitimo’s soft voice as he hummed, thoughtful for a moment. “Girls like a lot of things, as we all do. Everyone has their own flaws and things they are proud of, be it a talent for music or an unusual hair colour.”

“You have mother’s hair, at least, and grandfather’s colour,” he grumbled.

“You have them too, Tyelko. Your hair is as thick and unruly as mine.”

“But the colour! Mine is a mixture of – I don’t know, it’s not golden like the Vanyar’s. It’s not even the silvery white of the Telerin’s royalty!”

“So? It doesn’t make you less of a Noldo,” he said, playfully tugging a braid to emphasise his point, “No one would mistake you for anything but one of us. Besides, you look a lot like mom and dad mixed together, more than me and Makalaurë.”

Tyelkormo said nothing, his mind a garbled mess of thoughts and feelings he could not hope to understand. He had felt lacking, inadequate for a long time; his hair, being the most glaring difference between him and the rest of his family, had been the first target of his frustration.

Their father’s beauty had set the unreachable standard among their kin, but his features were, indeed, widespread. How many Noldor were there, who looked like a bland version of their father? And comparing himself to Makalaurë’s did nothing for Tyelkormo’s self-confidence. His brother strongly resembled their father, though his features were softer, his manners gentler and he needed but to speak for people to trip on their own feet to steal a moment of his attention.

Tyelkormo, instead, had inherited every sharp edge of his father – those that made people scramble away from him when he was in a foul temper; that made his grey eyes blaze whiter, to the point of being unbearable; that had him snap at the mildest of provocations, and say things he would soon regret. He and his father simply clashed when they argued, like stone against stone; they could be harsh, they could shout and rage without ceding ground to the other. No one wanted to deal with them in those moments.

Except mother and Maitimo, the only ones who could calm their stormy attitude. Their mother had a way of raising her eyebrows and clicking her tongue in disappointment that compelled Tyelkormo to do as she said – he had noticed she did the same with Fëanáro; his father never argued after she had made her utter displeasure known. That had impressed a very young Tyelkormo, to the point of dreading his mother’s quiet reproach more than his father’s rage.

As for Maitimo, he could only liken him to a mountain. Grounded, unmovable, with a deceptively gentle disposition. He had looked up to his elder brother for all his life, wanting desperately to be like him. His height, his hair, his keen mind, everything about him set him apart from the common Noldo, and Tyelkormo was grateful that there was someone – his brother no less – as unusual as he felt. Still, his brother fit in Noldorin society more than Tyelkormo could ever hope.

“There, done,” his brother’s voice put an end to his thoughts.

“Does it look good?” he croaked, voice raspy from the prolonged silence.

“Mh, more than,” said Maitimo. He gathered Tyeko’s hair to one side, letting it fall over his left shoulder. His arms sneaked around Tyelkormo, trapping him in an unexpected embrace.

“What if I told you that your hair looks like grandmother Miriel’s?” he murmured.

Tyelkormo’s heart leaped in his throat. “I don’t believe you! Her hair was silver, like…really silver.”

He felt Maitimo’s breath tickle his ear as he huffed, “That is how the pictures of her in the palace portray her. But I know for a fact that her hair colour was not like that and more like yours.”

“How?” There were again tears in his eyes, but somehow Tyelkormo felt his sadness and frustration slip away, replaced by relief.

His brother placed a kiss on his temple, tightening his hold, “Because that’s what grandfather Finwë had said when you were born, Tyelko.”


End file.
